#as predicted my summer love fic is nowhere near done so

[astrobei]

(cue upbeat summer shopping montage)

[leesacrakon]

Correspondence pt. 2

Part 1

Summary: Virgil despises his life, but when he’s assigned a pen pal from Arizona for his next English project, he decides high school might not be so bad after all.

Pairings: Future Analogical

Chapter Warnings: Bullying and some self deprecating talk

A/N: This Fic is a collab with the amazing @accidental-sanders ! They’ll be writing from Logan’s point of view and I’ll be writing from Virgil’s! They wrote part 1 and will be writing part 3.

- -

Virgil groaned as his alarm went off and reached around blindly in the dark, finally switching it off when he knocked it to the floor and smashed it. He flinched at the loud sound and mentally kicked himself, turning on his lamp so he could bend down and pick up the pieces. He knew his dad was going to be upset; they had barely any money for food, let alone a brand new alarm clock. Virgil thought absentmindedly about different odd jobs he could do to earn money to buy a new one. In the meantime, he would just use his watch as an alarm.

After setting those on his nightstand, he proceeded with his morning routine. Take a cold shower, brush his teeth, use make up to conceal bags under his eyes. The cold shower usually helped to wake him up. He barely got any sleep, working got hours on homework assignments he could almost never complete. The bags under his eyes were a clear result. Not wanting to be picked on or cause unnecessary worry for his father, Virgil always covered them with makeup. The hardest part of Virgil’s routine was trying to tame his hair, getting dressed, and being force fed by his father, Roman. Especially that last one.

“Son, you need to eat!” Roman insisted, shoving a pop tart into Virgil’s hands as he tried to escape without his father noticing. Virgil groaned and tried to give the pop tart back to his dad, but the experienced father of a growing teenager had some tricks up his sleeves. Roman smiled to himself as he slipped the pop tart into Virgil’s back pocket without him noticing as he ran out the door.

“Have a good day at school!” Virgil merely gave a weak wave in response and sprinted outside, not wanting to be suffocated by his dad’s almost contagious energy. Just as Virgil predicted each and every morning, he almost missed the bus, and had to sit all the way in the back where all the assholes were. What a fantastic way to start his day!

He walked quickly through the halls, keeping his head bowed low, ignoring the students who shoved him into lockers and shouted slurs that made the other kids laugh, ignoring the tears burning in his eyes and his heart thudding in his chest as he rushed to English class as quickly as he could. Virgil pulled his hoodie up, and thankfully the teacher didn’t say anything. He felt a small tap on his shoulder and glanced up to see Emile, the guy who sat next to him that he barely knew (he actually knew him pretty well, they just didn’t talk much at school. He was the closest thing Virgil had to a friend even still), looking at him with concern.

“Hey Virgil, you doing alright? You look like you didn’t sleep again,” Emile commented, brushing some of Virgil’s hair aside. Virgil flinched slightly but just shrugged, giving Emile a smile that he hoped looked reassuring.

“Yeah I’m good, no need to worry. I just had to stay up a little later doing some chemistry homework. I’ll try to get more sleep tonight,” Virgil mumbled. From the confused look on the face of his pink-loving companion, Virgil figured Emile hadn’t heard him, but he didn’t care. It was better that way; he didn’t need Emile worrying about his problems that didn’t even matter.

“It’s that time of year again class! Pen pals!!” Virgil’s over enthusiastic teacher squealed, her blonde curls bouncing as she skipped into the room. Virgil huffed and rested his head on his desk. He really didn’t like Ms. Patterson. Oh sure, she was a nice person and a great teacher, but she was way too loud and too...bright! Virgil only half-listened as Ms. Patterson explained the instructions. They would each get a letter addressed to them, they had to write a response of so-and-so length, no bad language, bladdy blah bleh blah. It was the same old project every year. Sure, Virgil had gotten some responses in the past, but they usually only lasted a couple weeks. The only one that really made a difference was this kid named Remy, who wrote a letter almost every day and ended up living super close by so Virgil got to meet him properly. He knew that this year would be like most years. No replies and no friendships. When Virgil’s letter was set on his desk he opened it without really looking at the address. As he skimmed over the letter he couldn’t help but smile. Whoever this kid was, they were a smartass. Just what Virgil liked. He grabbed his pen and pulled out a sheet of paper, beginning to write.

Dear Logan,

Unnamed student? That don’t do. I’m Virgil, or virge if you’d rather call me that. I’m doing pretty good, I guess. Better than I am most days, although I did smash my alarm clock this morning. I’m writing to you from New York. Since it’s summer it’s about 90 degrees outside or some shit. It can get up to a hundred or more here, but during winter, if there’s a wind chill, it can get in the -30s. I have seen a lot of snow, but nowhere near as much as the people in Buffalo. Did you know they get up to 6 feet? I think it’s cause of the lake. What’s Arizona like? Are there lizards and spiders in your beds?

I’m a junior too. I really like art classes, but I think creative writing is my favorite. Why do you like math? Does it help you concentrate or something? It just stresses me out. I don’t really do many clubs, but I’ve done some choir and tech crew in the past. You kind of remind me of this kid in my English class named Emile. And yeah, that’s a good thing.

Damn, you really are good at math huh? How did you come up with all those statistics? Can you do stuff like that in your head or are you being a smartass and mocking your teacher? I’ve been there, so don’t feel bad.

Virgil stared ay the math problems that his pen pal wrote, completely confused.

When you said you were going to write math formulas I thought it would be funny if I solved them, but I have no idea what the hell these are talking about. Also, surprise mother fucker, you’re letter has been received! I may have anxiety but I don’t think I doubt as much as you do. I get at least a couple replies from my pen pal every year. Have you ever gotten a response back before?

You know, personally I think letters are really cool. They tend to be more personal and it seems more real than getting an email or a text. When you write it’s easier to get your feelings out. You may even end up trusting a total stranger.

Sorry about that, ramble a lot. As for how much snow we get, it really depends. Sometimes it Makes us have to cancel school because the roads are too dangerous, but it’s fun to play in. I like building snowmen. You know what you should try to do since you don’t have snow? Build a man out of clay or something. That would be fun, right?

So, I guess I should ask a couple questions before I wrap up. What’s your favorite color? Have you ever been out of state? What are your preferred pronouns? Do you have any other hobbies?

I’ll think up of more stuff later. I hope I hear from you again.

Sincerely,

Virgil Prince

Ps. I actually did know that, I took a Latin class.

Pps. Thanks dude, I’ll keep that in mind.

Ppps. Why the fuck are you writing so many of these? Also excuse my language. If it bothers you let me know. And yeah, this assignment is weird, but who knows? We could end up getting married or some shit. Unless you don’t swing that way.

Virgil folded up the letter and stuck it in an envelope, writing down the address of his pen pal and bringing the letter up to the front. He wasn’t the first person to finish but he wasn’t the last either, which was slightly comforting. He stuck his letter in the basket, leaving it open for his teacher to read, and sat back at his desk. Virgil ignored Emile’s concerned glances as he pulled his hood back up, turning his music up to full volume and preparing himself for another day in hell.

[lolcat76]

Love your stories. Wondering you're still accepting fic prompts? Laura and Bill are both reluctantly attending a singles retreat at the prodding of their families. One of them is injured on one of the outings, and are forced to interact, and well, you know...

I am always accepting prompts. I may not always answer if I can’t figure out how to write it, but I’m always accepting. And I hope you guys don’t mind if I don’t answer in a timely fashion.

“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” - Tolstoy

Bill loved his sons, but sometimes he hated them. Lee, happy with Dee. Zak, happy with Kara. Even Carolanne was happy with…whatever his name was. The three of them were convinced that Bill had a huge gaping hole in his heart, so for his 55th birthday, they sent him on a singles cruise.

He should have cashed in his ticket and stayed in Seattle, done the tourist thing. Seattle was a nice enough town, and God knew he was a fan of port cities. Still, he boarded the boat and threw his duffel bag on the bed that he was sure his sons paid far too much for, but was still bigger and probably more comfortable than his rack on his last tour. He was always more comfortable at sea than on dry land, and the trip was paid for, and honestly…what did he have to lose?

As they cast off, confetti and streamers circling around him, he tried to be grateful for the gift his sons had given him, not bitter for many times he’d set sail to the Middle East without ribbons and fanfare. He was retired, done with the Navy. Being shipboard was a pleasure, not a duty. Still, his skin itched with the memory of polyester uniforms, and he fought against his instinct to wave to the wife and sons that were nowhere near the ship nosing its way through Puget Sound. 

He kicked at the paper ribbons and made his way down the balcony and through the corridors that led to the door to his stateroom. Seven days in Alaska, and then he could retreat to his studio apartment in Walnut Creek. Seven days, and he could resume reading books, building model ships, and waiting for Lee’s firstborn to arrive.

In the meantime, the ship had a bar and a casino. It wasn’t a total loss.

The first day on the cruise was ‘at sea.’ A very generous description for boredom, coupled with no Wifi. Fortunately, Bill had no problem entertaining himself during lonely hours aboard a boat cutting through the Pacific Ocean. He had a shipboard credit for drinks, he had a stack of cash Zak pressed into his hand for the onboard casino, and he had his favorite book. He made conversation at dinner, watched a show that just depressed him, and hit the rack before 11pm. What a great vacation.

The second day, he woke up early and headed out to the aft deck after he downed a cup of coffee. Bill settled in a lounge chair and flipped through the pages of Searider Falcon to find where he’d left off the day before.

He was just starting the seventh chapter when he realized that he was no longer alone. Nobody came on a cruise to Alaska to sunbathe, even a singles cruise, and yet…the woman beside him was baring more than a little skin in the morning sun.

Bill was retired, not dead. He took one look and realized that Searider Falcon, as much as he loved it, was going to have to wait. Moore’s prose was nothing compared to the legs he could see out of the corner of his eye.

She wasn’t quite his age, but not far behind. Her skin was fair - maybe Irish, maybe European, maybe she just bought good sunscreen at the local drugstore. She wore a large-brimmed hat and dark sunglasses to keep the late summer sun out of her eyes. Funny that he couldn’t see her face, but he could see every freckle on her chest.

Bill was suddenly very grateful that he’d gone on this cruise.

Still, even though it was a singles cruise, he wasn’t the type of man to strike up a conversation with a stranger (much to Saul’s dismay over the years).

He eyed the paperback she was reading. Blood Runs at Midnight. Sounded like crap pulp fiction, but at least she was reading. The last woman he’d gone on a date with could barely read the cover of a magazine before she got distracted.

He contemplated asking her about the book, but before he could open his mouth, the ship’s horn echoed two short blasts.

Shore leave. (Can’t shake old habits.)

They had an excursion for the Mendenhall Glacier, something he’d been looking forward to a good half-hour earlier. Now, he was once again regretting being forced to abide by someone else’s schedule.

She closed her book and sighed before pushing herself off the lounge chair with a hum and a shake of her hair. He’d missed it earlier, tucked under her hat, but it fell over her shoulders as she tucked her book in her bag, catching the late summer sun. Dark brown, but he didn’t miss the light reflecting glints of gold and red before she gathered her things and disappeared through the door.

Suddenly he owed his kids a thanks for sending him on this cruise.

***

Wading his way through the hundreds of people who were most likely forced onto this cruise by equally ungrateful children, he tried to find a little bit of space to enjoy the grandeur of the landscape before him. Thirty years in the Navy, and he was pleasantly surprised that the world still had a surprise or two for him.

The ten years before his retirement had been spent in the seas and deserts of the Persian Gulf. Compared to sand and sun, a giant glacier was a welcome change of pace. The Mendenhall Glacier was impressive yes, but he had to admit it wasn’t even close to the best thing he’d seen on the trip, and it was only the second day.

He chose his steps carefully along the beach, keeping the glacier in his peripheral vision. No doubt Zak and Lee would ask about what he’d seen and done, and somehow, he thought a ten-minute diatribe about some woman’s legs wasn’t exactly what they wanted to hear, especially since he didn’t even know her name.  Then again, it was a singles cruise. Maybe what they really wanted to hear about was someone’s legs.

Maybe he was far too close to his sons.

The glacier was icy cold, white, blue and translucent. Begged to be admired from afar and touched up close but threatened to freeze anyone who reached out. Same as the woman he’d seen that morning. The same futile unapproachability. He surveyed the cold blue veins running through the glacier. Cold, and beautiful, and completely unattainable.

Chapter seven, safe and predictable, was waiting for him in his cabin. He headed away from the glacier and back to the parking lot.

He was maybe about a hundred feet from the ship’s tour bus when someone in front of him hit a patch of ice and came down hard, letting out a small squeak of feminine surprise her when tailbone met earth. Bill took a few long steps and grabbed the poor victim of the slick sidewalk under her arms, setting her more or less back on her feet.

He didn’t recognize her at first, not until he got a good look over her shoulder at the expanse of white, freckled skin exposed by the v-neck of her black sweater. Suddenly, the desert heat was nothing compared to the flush in his skin.

“You ok?” he asked, a little more gruffly than he’d intended. His fair maiden in distress pushed away from him, brushing slush and grit from the seat of her jeans.

“Fine,” she said, her tone more than a little embarrassed. She straightened under his gaze and looked up to meet his eyes.

No sunglasses this time. Just bright green emerald eyes, clearer and deeper than the Adriatic.

And he thought her legs were impressive.

“Thank  you,” she said. “I’m not used to winter.”

“It’s August,” he replied. “Not exactly winter.”

It’s August? Jesus, no wonder he was single. He used to be charming, back in the days before marriage and kids and rations. Must have left that back in basic training.

“August in California looks a little different,” she said with a shrug. She thanked him again and turned back to the bus, but only managed one step before she faltered. He caught her elbow before her legs could give out beneath her.

“You’re not ok.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could get a word out, he wrapped his arm against her waist. “Lean on me. I’ll get you back to the bus.”

They took halting steps, him slowing his pace to keep time with her, her leaning more and more of her weight against him. It’d be faster to just pick her up and carry her, but he’d had a good day so far, and he didn’t want to ruin it by getting slapped for being forward. Her ankle might be busted, but he had no doubt that her hands worked just fine.

I’ll bet they do. He might have left his charm back in basic, but his libido was still very much present and accounted for.

When they got back to the bus, he tucked her into a seat and settled beside her. “When we get back to the ship, I’ll take you to the infirmary to get that checked out.”

She rolled her eyes and huffed a little bit. “Figures. First vacation I take in ten years, and I manage to make an ass out of myself.”

“Maybe you should have taken a cruise to Mexico. Far less dangerous.”

She shrugged. “What’s the point of taking a vacation, if it doesn’t get you out of your head and into dangerous territory?”

A very good question. At the moment, he had absolutely no desire to be in his head, not when she was sitting so close to him that he could catch the faintest whiff of perfume, or shampoo or fabric softener. Something delicate and floral, taking his libido down paths that were far more dangerous territory indeed than an icy walkway to a tour bus parking lot. Get a grip, Bill.

���Bill Adama,” he said, extending his hand to her.

She took his hand and gave it a firm shake, far more steady and confident than he would have expected from such a soft-spoken woman. “Laura Roslin.”

Something about her name rang a bell in the far corners of his mind, but he ignored it in favor of savoring her soft skin against his callused palm. “Thank you for coming to my rescue,” she said. She gave his hand a slight squeeze, then dropped it, crossing her arms and tucking her delicate fingers away from his reach.

When she broke contact, his blood flow managed to redirect itself from his palm back to other, more necessary parts of his body. Laura Roslin? The secretary of education? He may be retired, but he still read the newspapers. Laura Roslin had just headed off a massive teachers’ strike, and not a moment too soon, if Lee was to be believed.

Lee was an idealist, and most of what he said to his father went in one ear and out the other. Still, he remembered Lee waxing poetical about Secretary Roslin’s ability to negotiate with the teacher’s union, despite the decidedly unpopular position they’d taken about teaching to growth rather than proficiency. Even Bill had to give her credit for not knuckling under to setting creationism as scientific policy, and that was well before he’d seen her legs.

He may not believe in God, but her legs…they did make for a convincing argument for the presence of a very benevolent Almighty.

Shut up, Bill, you asshole.

As the bus filled, he asked her about the strike, and about her policies on public schools. She might have been a little reticent to discuss her aching ankle, but she came alive when talking about her job. She was halfway through a diatribe about affordable college education when the bus pulled up in the harbor, and he was loath to interrupt her to get her back on the ship and into the infirmary. This time, though, she was a little more willing to lean against him as he guided her up the gangplank and through the ship’s mazes of corridors to the infirmary.

The narrow cots were full of the upper crust looking a little green around the gills, and a white-haired ship’s doctor bounced back and forth like a ping pong ball, giving out Dramamine and gruff advice to puke in a bucket, not on themselves. Bill liked him immediately.

By the time the doctor got to Laura, Bill had eased her boot off her ankle and had her foot, swelling and turning an alarming shade of purple, resting in his lap. The doctor poked and prodded at her leg, asked her a few questions, and told her that she’d be fine if she just stayed shipboard and off of it for a few days. “Sorry,” he said. “But if you didn’t want your ass stuck on a ship, you shouldn’t have gone on a cruise.” He turned to Bill. “Keep your lady friend off her feet.” He raised a thick, white eyebrow. “Which is the point of a vacation like this, right?”

Between the two of them, they let loose an impressive, yet disjointed array of words, none of which was quite enough to make the point that they were together in the infirmary, but they weren’t together. The doctor didn’t seem to care, pushing them out the door while he waved an assistant toward a bedpan and a senior citizen who was starting to heave. “Go. Off your feet. Stay out of here for the next five days.”

Bill led Laura back through the ship. Her weight against him was starting to feel…right. Natural. He held her forgotten boot in one hand and her waist in the other, content to follow her halting directions back to her stateroom. One elevator and three turns, and he realized that the door he was standing in front of while she fished a key out of the pocket of her jeans was three doors down from his own.

He eased her down on the bed and dropped her shoe. Suddenly, he was at a loss as to what to do with his hands. With himself. With her. “Can I get you some ice?”

She nodded. “Yes. From the minibar. In a glass, with some Scotch.”

A woman who read and drank Scotch. He needed to call his sons tonight and thank them. He poured her a small measure of Scotch on the rocks and handed it to her, and at her raised eyebrow, he chuckled and poured himself a drink as well.

“So, Bill Adama. Rescuer of women.”

“So, Laura Roslin. Reader of books.”

She gave him a blank look, and he cursed himself for his involuntary slip. Of course she didn’t notice him that morning. He nodded at the battered paperback on the nightstand. “Blood Runs at Midnight? Sounds awful.”

She let loose a full-bodied laugh that shook both her shoulders and her red-gold hair. “I know, doesn’t it? But it’s a pretty good mystery. If you need something to read, I’m happy to lend it to you.”

Bill grimaced. “Never lend books. You won’t get them back, and you’ll just be pissed. How about we trade?”

She leaned forward, meeting his eyes over the rim of her Scotch. “And what do you have to offer, Mr. Adama?”

The Almighty he didn’t believe in was testing him, and he was failing miserably. He drained his Scotch, then palmed her room key. “I’ll show you,” he said. He was out the door and halfway down the hall before she could even utter the slightest argument.

Two minutes later, he was back in her room with Searider Falcon in his hand. “A fan of the classics, Madam Secretary?” he asked, holding the book out to her.

She accepted the hardback, stroking the cover almost reverently. “I haven’t read this one since college.” She flipped through the pages, settled against the headboard of her bunk, then started reading aloud.

Chapter seven, just where he’d left off. “‘The raft wasn’t as seaworthy as I’d hoped.’ This boat better be, or I want a refund.” She stopped reading long enough to pat the polyester quilt next to her. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, wanting to be close to her, but not wanting to be that guy. The creepy guy on the singles cruise who hit on an injured woman who’d just had a decent amount of Scotch.

“Bill,” she said, “come here.” She snapped her fingers and pointed to the empty space on the bed.

With that stern voice, no wonder she was so effective as the secretary of education. She must have been hell in the classroom. Not wanting to further incur her wrath, and very much wanting to get another hint of her warmth, he eased himself onto the bunk, shifting until she was once again leaning against him. She hummed softly, then continued reading. “I wasn’t afraid to die. I was afraid of the emptiness I felt inside.”

With one hand, she held the book; with the other, she wrapped her fingers around his. She read the seventh chapter, then the eighth.

Over her soft voice, Bill could hear the dim echo of shipboard announcements and voices passing outside her door. Dinner was being served, shows were going on, the casino was probably packed, but he couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

Best vacation he’d ever had.